Steve's house isn't the first place Bucky hits when all is said and done, but Natalia had been so eager to show him his own hut that he hadn't wanted to make a break from her so fast, for reasons both practical and not. Now, though, he's alone, and wearing clothes that fit him a lot better than the ones he pulled on in a hurry this morning, though he's kept the knife at his hip. It's not as comforting as his old Tommy Gun, but it'll do in a pinch.

Though he caught a glimpse of it earlier through the trees, he finds Steve's place to be bigger than he anticipated, the architecture considerably different than the other huts he's come across. He wonders if Steve didn't design it himself; being an artist, Bucky figures, can't be that much different than being an architect.

Eager to see his partner, though, after such a strange morning, Bucky bounds up towards the front door, silent as a shadow, only slowing when he hears the distinct sounds of someone crying through the entrance way, just out of sight. Curious -- and a little cautious -- he creeps inside, his eyes falling upon a boy seemingly years younger than him, curled in on himself so much that Bucky can't get a good look at his face.

"Um, hi," he greets, lifting a hand in an awkward wave. "Are... you okay, buddy?"